


Something Just Like This

by AliciasClarke (fyeahgila)



Category: Black Sails
Genre: AUTHOR AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Fluff, John is only mentioned once and won't show up, Love Poems, M/M, Pining, for all the James x Thomas shippers complaining there's no fic without also Silver in it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyeahgila/pseuds/AliciasClarke
Summary: Thomas is a newly published, award-winning, author who has been haunted by a writer’s block for the last couple of months. Critics and media are celebrating him and about every woman in London is smitten with him and his work. But he couldn’t care less about being a heart-throb, all he ever wanted was for people to like his work. One night at a reading, he’s meeting a man who claims not to be a fan, but who turns out to be the source of Thomas's newly-found inspiration...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> finally I can post the first chapter of my Thomas is a famous author AU that I've been talking so much about on Tumblr. I'm so happy that I could actually write this, it's so much fun and I really really hope that you'll like this as much as I do :)  
> The title is named after the song by Coldplay and the Chainsmokers, which I originally couldn't stand but do love now :D  
> I'm also not quite sure whether this fic will have 3 or maybe 5 chapters, we'll see...enjoy reading! 
> 
> (btw. I'd just like to add that I haven't forgotten my A Single Man AU, I'm having just so little time atm and I'm more inspired to write this story rn, so everyone reading that other story, I hope you can cut me some slack and have some patience with me, thanks!)

“…and today on Twenty Minutes we’re talking to the man who made poetry sexy again”, the BBC 2 radio show host was speaking into the mic while Thomas tried very hard not to smirk and simultaneously roll his eyes. 

He’d gotten this a lot lately. For whatever reason that didn’t quite reveal itself to him yet, media had decided to celebrate him like a pop star. It wasn’t a bad thing, though, on the contrary. People talked about him, wrote about him, bought his books. It was all he ever wanted, but it also was exhausting and he didn’t really understand it. He was just an author, trying to get his literature and poems published. He’d be happy to “just” be on the bestseller lists instead of being invited to radio and TV talk shows. Obviously, he felt flattered by it, he loved that more general audiences seemed to be interested in what he was writing. But it simply didn’t make any sense to him; why would they treat him of all people like the new hot stuff? He wasn’t an actor or a musician after all. These people signed up for being famous, being recognised on the streets, always being in the limelight. They probably wanted nothing more than to be recognised. All he ever wanted, was for people to like his writing enough that they’d truly be willing to buy his books. And now he wasn’t just a bestselling author, a Ted Hughes Award winner, as well as a Forward Prize winner, but also a public figure whose face was being printed on big newspapers and whose life was being discussed on national television. 

This still needed him some getting used to, especially since he never signed up for any of it. Why couldn’t they just focus on the messages behind his work? Why wasn’t it enough to figure out an interpretation for what he was writing? Why was it necessary to force him into discussions about his personal life, his upbringing, his friends, his “girlfriend”. There wasn’t anyone fitting into that latter category, hadn’t really his whole life. He loved men. Even subtly hinted on this in some of his works and he was profoundly surprised that nobody had figured it out so far. Maybe one especially clever arts and culture journalist had interpreted it as literary freedom, but most just didn’t catch it. Instead, they kept painting this picture of him as some kind of modern Casanova who made all the girls swoon with just his words. Not that he didn’t enjoy it, he absolutely loved when people approached him after one of his readings and wanted to talk about one of his poems or one of his stories and were truly smitten with what he’d written. Though, sometimes he had the impression that a lot of his readers, who consisted of about 75% of women, actually were smitten with him more than with his work. 

And exactly for that reason, his agent didn’t think that it would be a particularly clever idea to go around, announcing that he was gay. Not that Thomas would ever have willingly done that. He valued his private life dearly and wanted to protect it as much as he could, hence he also disapproved of all the reporters who were more interested in his persona than in his writing. On the other hand, it wasn’t like he was hiding anything. He never really had done so after he came out in his early twenties. It had been a too long, too hard struggle with his father whom he’d eventually cut out of his life for being the one who always brought him down. After that, hiding hadn’t been an option for him anymore. But now, there was no one he could have hidden. No one anyone could have seen him with. He’d been single for a couple years, not seriously seeing anybody, mostly because he’d been so incredibly focused on his work. So, when one of the reporters asked him about his inspiration for a love story, there wasn’t anybody in particular that he could have named. 

The only thing he remotely liked about all of this was that it was quite fun to fool them all by letting them believe that Max, one of his best friends whom he knew since college, was some girl he could be dating. When in fact she was just the one accompanying him to official events like award shows or fancy literary dinners. It was needless anyway. The more he tried to make them understand that Max and he were just friends, the more they didn’t believe him and thought he was just making things up to protect his relationship. When in fact there wasn’t any relationship that could be protected. 

One thing was for sure, though; should he meet someone, someone whom he truly cared about, and people did find out about it, he wouldn’t even care to deny it. He didn’t give a thing about what his agent was saying, he wasn’t afraid of the public’s perception of him. He also didn’t care in the slightest about potentially breaking all these poor women’s hearts and by that risking to lose a loyal readership. It was never his intention to be a heart-throb after all. That’s not a thing an author was supposed to be, there were enough actors around who could take this place. All he ever wanted was to write and his work being successfully published was the non-plus-ultra he never really believed he could achieve. As long as he still could write, he didn’t really care how many people read it. Critics probably wouldn’t even give a damn if he was having a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend, they were paid to analyse his works after all, not the things he did when he wasn’t writing. At least that’s what he used to tell his agent, whom he probably would just fire in case he ever found someone who was that important to him, who was worth all the trouble. 

“He recently won the Ted Hughes Award for new work in poetry and his very first published collection of fictional short stories and poems is currently ranked among the top five of the Independent’s bestseller list”, Ian Walker, the radio reporter continued talking into his mic. 

“If these clues didn’t already make you guess our guest, today I’m talking to Thomas Hamilton. Good afternoon, Thomas”, he announced to the listeners. 

“Good afternoon, Ian”, Thomas replied good-naturedly. 

“So, Thomas, it’s been a few months now since your first collection ‘Silence is the Loudest Noise’ has been published and it’s been incredibly well-received. You’ve won awards just a couple weeks back…how are you dealing with this rather unexpected success so far?”, Ian wanted to know. 

It was a question he always got. In all possible forms and explanations. By now he could probably answer it in his sleep. That didn’t mean, though, that what he replied wasn’t completely earnest. 

“Well, it’s true that all of this happened quite sudden. But I have always believed in my writing. For me, it was just a matter of time, until someone finally recognized it and liked it enough to want to buy it. What’s truly been a huge surprise, though, is that so many people are suddenly interested in this kind of literature again, which is very flattering and hopefully also a good sign for my fellow artists out there”, Thomas explained with a smile. 

“Has this been a goal of yours, to make people want to read more poetry again, instead of just the latest thrillers or adventure novels? Some critics have called your work a kind of revolution against mainstream literature”, the radio host went on. 

“It wasn’t my intention, to be quite honest”, Thomas laughed into his mic. “I’ve just always really enjoyed writing poetry…”

“You started writing when you were only 14, is that right?”, Ian disrupted him. 

“Yes, I started scribbling down ideas that came to my mind from an early age, basically wherever I was, I always had a notebook with me”, he told, remembering these times with a mixture of fondness and horror. 

He’d been so innocent and naïve and by now some of the things he’d written were embarrassing, but he guessed it was quite normal to think like this. He’d hugely developed his writing style, especially since he started studying literature and creative writing. In his late twenties, he’d even started a PhD program, but then given up on it a year later just to have more time to solely focus on his writing. Finally, having managed to become a published and award-winning writer at 34 was much overdue in the eyes of some of his old professors and mentors. But sometimes he was glad, he wasn’t recognised earlier because he didn’t like some of his works from a couple years before as much as more recent ones. 

“But you’re also writing short stories. Your work isn’t only defined by poetry”, the radio host determined now. 

“Some ideas need a wider outlet. There’s only so much you can put into a poem. Sometimes something requires to be told in a few thousand words rather than just a few dozen”, Thomas explained, happy to have finally found a reporter who seemed to be interested in talking about his work. 

“Where are you taking your inspiration from? If one listens to you talking about it, one might get the impression that things are just randomly floating into your mind”, the radio reporter went on. 

“That’s because it literally happens like this a lot of times. I can draw inspiration from many things all around me”, Thomas meant. 

“So, there isn’t a special ritual, or a muse?”, Ian wanted to know and his grin was a little too wide for Thomas not to understand the inclination. 

“Are you trying to ask the girlfriend question again, Ian?”, he asked back instead of answering, trying to take it jokingly. 

“Not subtle enough?”, the radio host replied with feigned shock. 

“More than a lot of your colleagues, though”, Thomas deadpanned. 

“I’m glad to hear that”, Ian joked along. “So, no girlfriend then? You can tell me, we’re among friends here. I’m sure a lot of our female listeners would be interested to find out.” 

“I’m certain of that, Ian. But there’s nothing I can tell you, there’s no one in particular who’s inspiring me at the moment”, Thomas explained, hoping he wouldn’t be asked about Max again. Because as much as it amused him, it also was incredibly annoying. 

“So, good news, ladies!”, Ian called into the mic and it was tough for Thomas not to roll his eyes at that. 

Probably he should just go for it and announce something like: “Actually, I like shagging blokes.” But he didn’t, because after all this joking around, everyone might be thinking he was kidding anyway. And he also didn’t see where this was anyone’s business but his own. 

“Is there anything new you’ve already been working on, do you have any great stories in mind?”, the radio host went on asking then and Thomas was glad the topic shifted back to his work.

Though, he wasn’t so eager about this question particularly. Because in truth, he’d had difficulties finding inspiration for the last couple of weeks. Maybe it was just because of all the excitement and stress he was going through at the moment, but he hadn’t produced a single line that was worth to ever be read by someone else than himself. It seemed like everyone was having such high expectations in him all of a sudden that he wasn’t quite sure he could ever meet. It was one thing to make a stunning debut, but it was a whole different matter to actually deliver something afterwards that continued to amaze everyone. 

“I’m always taking notes and if something sticks to my mind, I’ll further work on it. Recently I’ve been occupied by so many different things that it was quite hard to focus, though”, he reported without going any deeper. 

“Can we expect more of your work being published soon, or what are the plans?” 

“For now, I’m actually doing readings. Quite a lot of them here in London, starting next week. But I’ll also be in Cambridge and then up north in Manchester and probably even Edinburgh in a few weeks”, Thomas explained. 

“That sounds quite exciting and it’s surely great to know for all your fans out there”, the radio reporter commented. 

“Yes, dates and more information can be found on my website”, Thomas remembered to mention. His agent would probably have decapitated him if he hadn’t. 

“Could you give us a little something of what one can expect from your readings?”

“Well, there’ll be poetry, short stories, time to discuss afterwards. I love hearing what people think about my work, what their interpretation for certain aspects is. I just really like this exchange and I hope that people out there are interested in this as well”, he meant. 

“So, if you want a chance to meet Thomas Hamilton in the flesh and discuss his poems with him, you should look up the dates”, the radio show host announced. “Will you also give us a foretaste of one of your poems, maybe?”

“I have to admit that I’m fairly bad at knowing things by heart”, Thomas laughed a little embarrassed. “But, I can give you this one, it’s quite short and I’ve written it a long while back. It has not made it into ‘Silence is the Loudest Noise’, so this is quite exclusive”, he teased. Actually, this wasn’t an answer as spontaneous as it seemed, because he’d discussed this with his agent before, who wanted him to make a list of little snippets he could throw out there at such occasions without giving away something that was better used in another collection. 

“You hear that, we’ll be listening to a world exclusive recitation of a poem that hasn’t been published yet!”, the radio reporter told. 

“What is it called?”, he wanted to know then. 

“Alone”, Thomas replied. 

“Alone? Okay, ladies and gents, this is Ian Walker on BBC2 and I present to you Thomas Hamilton with his still unpublished poem ‘Alone’”

 _“Alone_  
I’m merely a shadow,  
While with you  
There’s complete intensity.  
One half of me  
Ablaze with light,  
The other so afar.  
Looking at a distant star,  
Wondering  
Who’ll take me to the sun”  
he recited and when he’d finished, Ian was clapping. 

“That was beautiful, I really like it, thank you for sharing this with us!”, he meant afterwards. 

“Thank you!”

“I’d love to ask you more about this one, but sadly we are at the end of the show for today. So, if your interest has been peaked now, you heard it. Thomas Hamilton’s readings are starting next week. It’s been great, Thomas, thanks for being here”, Ian meant. 

“Thank you for having me”, Thomas replied, while the reporter said his goodbyes to the listeners of the show and instead started playing some music. 

“So, I believe you don’t want to share with us who’s been inspiring you to this poem?”, Ian meant, grinning cheekily and Thomas started to laugh. 

“You’d have to sign a contract first to assure me that this won’t be all over the news by tonight”, he joked. “It has been written a long time ago. I was still at university back then, you meet a lot of people at that age. That’s all you’re going to get.”

“A pity”, Ian sighed with feigned disappointment. “But I’ll probably make it to one of your readings”, he added. 

“You’re very welcome”, Thomas answered with a sincere smile and then told his goodbyes to Ian and his colleagues before leaving the radio station. 

 

**One week later**

He hadn’t written a single useful word in almost two months. 

The night before, his very first reading as a published author had taken place and it had gone amazingly well. There had been about 50 people at the small theatre, more hadn’t even fit and the venue had been quite crowded. But the atmosphere had been relaxed, there were about two third women of all ages and some older men, as well as some college-aged guys who might very well be literature students. They’d listened almost devoutly while he was reading from his collection and in between had told some little stories about the writing process, or how he’d felt when he held the first copy of his own book in his hands and how grateful he was for everyone who was buying it and had come to that reading. 

Afterwards he’d signed some copies that people had brought along with them, and even sold some new exemplars, all the while taking enough time to listen to everyone; what they had to say, what feedback they offered to him, the various interpretations that came to their minds. A teenaged girl had told him that she’d felt so inspired by his short stories, that she’d started writing some herself and he thought that so far, this probably had been the best compliment he’d ever got. Of course, he gave her advice as best as he could and wished her the best of luck and inspiration for her own stories. He’d also got into a rather philosophical discussion about the afterlife with a guy in his mid-twenties who told him he was an English literature student who was thinking about using some of his writings as quotes in a paper, which was truly flattering. 

When a middle-aged woman had asked him whether they could expect more stories and poems soon, Thomas replied with something similar he’d said on the BBC radio interview while swallowing down his bad conscience and his rising panic. Just then he’d become aware of the fact for how long he hadn’t sat down with a notebook and actually had been able to produce something useful. Obviously, he’d scribbled some vague ideas, some lonely words, but nothing at all that could be used for something more. 

The worst thing was that he had no idea where this draught was coming from. Most of his life, it had been so easy for him to just write. During his teenage years, he’d basically enjoyed writing more than speaking, being that odd kid always sitting around on his own with his notebook. He hadn’t cared about classmates calling him funny names, all he ever cared about was writing. He’d written so much over the years that he could have published fifty more collections, if only everything was good enough. The problem was, that he was incredibly perfectionist and rather ripped pages out and threw them away if he didn’t think it was great, instead of just keeping them. For him it was all or nothing. If he did half things, probably he wouldn’t have the honour to do these readings now. His writing needed to be the best it could be. Probably he was stressing himself too much, he mused. Probably he shouldn’t be too hard on himself. On the other hand, if he wasn’t, would he have two literary awards standing in his living room now? 

Saying that he could draw inspiration from a lot of things was completely true. Sometimes it was a person he’d just observed while on the tube, or a song he’d listened to on the radio which interpret he had never heard of, sometimes it was a picture in a magazine, a poster for a new movie, other times it was just the words someone had told him sometime. It was the raindrops on his windows on a grey day, the first ray of light that flooded into his bedroom on a lazy Sunday morning, a bird singing on the rooftop outside. It was kids playing in the park around the corner, the neighbours fat black cat sitting on the garden wall, it was a stroll through Kensington Garden with a friend, going exploring Borough Market on a Saturday, taking a walk along the river Thames. It was going out, just sitting around watching passers-by, meeting new people, or just hanging out with old friends. There were millions of little things like these that could spark his creativity. At least that’s what usually happened. He’d be doing something entirely else and then remember something and suddenly there was an idea that would more or less manifest itself in his mind until it needed an outlet. But recently that wasn’t something that had happened to him at all. No matter what he did, his mind stayed as empty as the pages of his notebook. 

When he’d finally told Max about it, her answer had been foreseeable. She was outgoing, not-shy-about-anything, Max after all. Which usually he loved about her, but could also be exhausting at times. Obviously, she’d suggested he got laid, at which he would have liked to facepalm himself. Or strangle Max. He’d done neither in the end and just sighed while she’d given him a meaningful glare. 

Maybe she was right, though he didn’t think that she was. He’d yet written some of his best works not while being in a relationship with someone, or hooking up with someone, but while pining after someone unattainable. Someone that he couldn’t have because he was straight, or because he didn’t like him that way. Sometimes, he thought, he had to suffer in order to be able to produce great work. So, probably he should just go out there and fall for some straight guy, he mused, but then disregarded that idea again as too sarcastic. 

It started to get infuriating. He’d tried writing in the park, in a café. He’d went to some pubs with a couple of friends, had seen a new theatre play, watched some random movies on Netflix, had his radio on non-stop, always searching for something new, something different. Anne, Max’s girlfriend, who was a painter, had invited him to her studio and he’d tried painting. It was quite a new experience because he hadn’t painted or drawn anything in years, not since art class at school. And while it had been a fun afternoon, it hadn’t brought the hoped effect. Still, his mind was empty. 

This evening was free, the next, he’d have another reading. So, he spent part of it more or less lamenting to Max on the phone. 

“Will you be there tomorrow?”, he asked, eventually, deciding that Max was clearly too good for him because recently she was always enduring his constant whining. 

“Anne has that thing tomorrow night…I’m sorry”, she apologised. 

“No, I get it completely. It’s fine”, he said in understanding. 

“I’ll be there the next time, okay? When’s the next one?”, Max wanted to know. 

“Friday night”, Thomas replied. 

“Good, I’ll be there Friday night!”, Max promised. 

“Thanks, you’re the best”, he meant, smiling into the phone. 

“You’re doing great, Thomas. Don’t worry too much, okay? Ideas will come to you again”, his best friend tried to cheer him up once more. “It’s just because you’re worrying too much and you’re too stressed out lately.” 

“I hope so…”, he meant, sighing. “Well, thanks for listening to me, again”, he added then. 

“Always”, she assured. 

“Thank you. See you on Friday then?”, he asked. 

“Of course, just text me the address”, Max said cheerfully. 

“Sure, see you then!”

“Goodnight, Thomas. Try to get some sleep”, she suggested and he smiled weakly, forgetting that Max couldn’t see it, before they hung up. 

 

**Friday night**

It was the third reading for this week and Thomas wasn’t all that nervous about it anymore. The other two had went far better than expected and by now he even was looking forward to the dialogue with his readers. It was quite fun meeting all these different people and getting a glimpse of their lives, their motivation to buy and read his collection, their thoughts on certain chapters, characters, or their interpretation of the messages behind his words. 

This evening, the reading was at a literature café in Islington. Readings were frequently being held there and Thomas had been at this place before to listen to some authors he liked. For him to be the one sitting up on that small podium instead of at one of the tables this night, seemed like a dream come true. People came to see him, to listen to the words he’d written, to talk to him about it. It was a lot better than he ever had imagined. 

There was room for about 30-35 people, so it was a really small venue. It basically was like presenting something in front of a school class. Max and Anne were two of the guests, sitting at a table in the second row and Max kept giving him a thumbs up or an encouraging smile every now and then, as he was getting ready to start. 

“Good evening. Thank you for being here tonight, it means a lot to me to be able to share my work with you in this way”, Thomas finally greeted his audience, not really able to make them all out in the weak light that was dimming all but the small stage he was sitting on. 

“I’d like to read some of my stories and poems to you, maybe tell you the one or other anecdote about my daily work and afterwards, if you’re up to it, I’d love to invite you to talk to me about anything that comes to your mind. You’ll also be able to buy my collection later, and of course, you can get your copy signed as well”, he went on, smiling knowingly as some women in the first row started to whisper excitedly for a moment. 

“This first story that I’d like to read to you is called ‘Through your eyes’. It is about someone falling in love with a blind person and by that, learning some new and unexpected sights on life…”, he explained, taking the very first copy of his collection to hands and turning to the page where the story began. Then he started reading while his audience was listening to him magnetised. 

 

“The last story I want to share with you tonight was actually written while on the tube. Because sometimes you are lucky enough to find a seat there and can get out your notebook to work”, he meant about four stories and almost twice as many poems later, smirking, while some people in the audience laughed in understanding. 

“That’s why it’s one of the shortest I’ve ever written, but I just intended to capture a moment that could be happening like this thousands of times every single day…It’s called ‘A five-minute love story’”, he explained and turned to the page where the story started. 

_“People do actually smile in their sleep. I never had the chance to observe this before, so I always figured it was just a random set phrase, overused in all the romance novels and rom-coms. But now, for the first time in all my twenty-nine years on this earth, I saw a person smiling in their sleep. It was on my way home from work on a Piccadilly line train out south directed to Heathrow. The carriage had luckily emptied enough already for me to finally be able to find a seat. When I was done thumbing through the Evening Standard, I let my view roam around, knowing that it was only about five more minutes until the train arrived at Hounslow Central. For a while I was simply staring out of the opposite window, my eyes tired from a typical day at the office in front of the screen, when at the periphery of my vision I noticed you, leaning there, sleeping. It wasn’t a seldom sight, people fell asleep on the tube all the time. Though, mostly they just looked stressed and exhausted, haunted by all the responsibilities they needed to take care of, even in their sleep. But you were smiling and it made you look incredibly beautiful. It made me smile back at you, although you couldn’t see it, and I wondered what it was that made you so happy that it would show even while asleep. Maybe you were simply a good-humoured person, maybe you had an incredibly great day. Maybe you got your dream job, the one you were hoping for ever since you were a child. Maybe you quit the old work that was driving you crazy and you felt finally free now. Maybe you were on your way to the airport to pick up the love of your life whom you hadn’t seen in months. Though, I wished, hoped a little, that the latter wasn’t true. Despite the fact how tremendously ridiculous this might have sounded, when said out aloud, for some inexplicable reason I wanted to be that person who made you this happy. I didn’t even know you, would probably never see you again, would have forgotten you by tomorrow. But right now, at this very moment, I wished I knew you, wished I was the reason for all the happiness in your life. I desperately wanted to be the one you’d be coming home to at the end of a busy, stressful, day just to make you smile like that. Probably I had been staring at you for too long, too intensely, because suddenly you started to move and a moment later you woke, reorienting yourself, blinking against the orange light of the evening sun falling onto your pretty face. Then you caught my eye, looking at me a little confused, which let you appear almost adorable and made me smile brightly at you, holding your gaze. After a short moment, you smiled back at me just as widely, seeming yet even lovelier than when you’d been asleep. Before our eye-contact could get uncomfortable or weird, though, the female voice announced that the next station was Hounslow Central and to please mind the gap. With another little smile into your direction, I took my paper and bag and then got up to step off the train.”_

When he closed the book at the end, his audience started to applaud and cheer and he got up to take a bow, smiling widely and waving back at Max and Anne. 

“Thank you all so much for coming here tonight. It’s been a huge pleasure to read to you. To those of you who’re leaving now, have a good evening! To everyone who’d like to stay, just go ahead, step a little closer if you like. You can get a new copy of ‘Silence is the Loudest Noise’ right here, or I can sign yours”, he declared, walking over to the table, holding about two dozen copies that he’d set up before. 

He barely could sit down there before some of his readers had already gathered around him, his collection in one hand, a pen in the other. 

“Hi. Thank you so much for sharing this with us, your words are so incredibly inspiring!”, a twenty-something woman who was apparently there with two friends said. They all seemed rather excited, grinning and whispering to each other. “Yeah, it’s just soo awesome that you’re doing these readings, it’s so great to get a chance to meet you!”, one of the other girls said. 

“Thank you, guys, for being here, really. Because without you wanting to read my work I wouldn’t be here right now”, Thomas replied, with an honest smile. 

“Would you maybe sign our copies?”, the first girl asked now. 

“Of course, what’s your name?”

“Emma”, the girl said and he took her copy to write a dedication into it. 

After the three young women had thanked him once more and then said their goodbyes, an elderly couple came up to him. 

“Thank you for this collection, Mr. Hamilton”, the lanky old man said. “It’s a gift. I’ve spent my whole life teaching English literature and this is truly an inspiration! I’m almost regretting being a pensioner by now, I’d have loved to discuss some of your texts in class”, he told him. 

“Thank you so much. That’s truly flattering”, Thomas replied with a grateful smile. 

“I especially like ‘Of Sitting on a Wall’. Its style reminds me of T.S. Eliot”, the man meant. 

“Because of the cat?”, Thomas laughed. 

“Not necessarily that, but the whole wording”, he returned with a smile. 

“Writing this was fun, it’s something different”, Thomas explained. “Can I get your copy signed?”, he offered then. 

“That would be very nice”, the old man handed him the book and Thomas scribbled a few short lines down for him. 

After that, he had to deal with that obligatory group of middle aged women who seemed to be at each reading. Not the very same ones, of course, but the same type. At least two of them shamelessly tried flirting with him to which he reacted ever polite as always. Inwardly he was rolling his eyes, wondering if this would happen at every single one of his readings now. But he also reminded himself that these women bought his book, they were part of the reason he could do these readings. So, no matter how annoying they were, they still were his readers and he owed a lot to them. One of them even asked him for a selfie and he obliged because if he could treat her and make her day a little brighter with such a simple gesture, then why not. 

There weren’t too many people around anymore after the group of women had left. Anne and Max, as well as very few others, were still sitting at their tables, seemingly not interested in coming over. Most of the audience had left already. There still was a man and a woman in their mid-thirties, who seemed to ponder if they wanted to talk to Thomas. In the end, the woman made her way towards him with her copy of ‘Silence is the Loudest Noise’, while the man decided to follow her a moment later. 

“Hi, good evening”, the woman said and Thomas was already fearing for a second that he had another fangirl in front of him. “Thank you for this lovely reading, it was truly beautiful. I’ve read your collection like half a dozen times already because I always seem to find a new way to look at certain aspects, it’s incredibly inspiring”, she told him and he was glad that his initial thought about her hadn’t been true. 

“Thanks, that’s very kind of you”, he answered honestly. 

“’Through your eyes’ is one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever read, I believe. There are just so many feelings expressed in it, it’s true art!”

“Thank you…what’s your name?”, he asked her.

“Miranda”, she told him.

“Thank you very much, Miranda”, Thomas meant, smiling at her. “Writing it was actually a little challenging, but I guess it turned out quite well”, he mentioned. 

“More than just well”, she agreed, nodding to underline her statement. 

“Would you like me to sign your exemplar for you?”, he offered then. 

“I’d love that”, she handed him the book. 

As he gave her the signed one back a few moments later, for the first time his gaze landed on the man standing a little behind her at her side. Thomas hadn’t given him any attention while talking to Miranda, but now he observed that this man was truly handsome with that lock of ginger hair falling in his face. When the other realised that Thomas had finished talking to the woman next to him, he shifted his gaze and met the author’s. When their eyes locked, even if it was only for a short moment, Thomas suddenly felt like it was too hard to breath and his mouth run dry. After the initial surprise, he tried to ignore his heavily beating heart and shortly shook his head to rip himself out of the rigour he’d fallen into. 

“Can I get a copy signed for you as well?”, he wanted to know, his voice sounding a bit strange to his own ears. Why was the presence of this beautiful stranger affecting him that much? After all, he’d encountered a lot of great looking men before. 

“Oh, I’m not a fan”, the man said, before hastily adding: “I meant…”

“No? Couldn’t my work persuade you tonight?”, Thomas disrupted him in feigned shock and laughed slightly when seeing that the ginger man actually possessed the decency to blush. 

“I didn’t mean it like that”, he clarified, even sounding a little embarrassed. “Well, I like one thing or the other”, he added. 

“I’m glad to hear that”, Thomas replied, hoping to get an excuse to keep talking to this man a bit longer. He was gorgeous with that copper hair and clean-shaven face with its striking features. 

“’A five-minute love story’ seemed a little far-fetched to me, though”, the man meant then. 

“Why is that?”, Thomas wanted to know, getting up now to sit at the edge of the table instead to be a little closer. He’d almost forgotten that the woman - Miranda - also still was around. 

“Well, it seems like an odd concept to me to be honest”, the ginger replied, shrugging. 

“Do you think so?” 

“Yeah, I mean, does this actually happen to people in real life? I never experienced anything like that”, he mused. 

“It happened to me”, Thomas provided like it was the most normal thing in the world. And to him it was. He’d had discussions with various friends before who mostly had been able to rely to this feeling. 

“Is this like...love at first sight?”, the other asked now. 

“The way you’re saying this makes me figure that you also don’t believe in that concept?”, Thomas asked back, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. This was the most entertaining conversation he’d had all night. 

“It never happened to me”, the man replied and for a moment, Thomas wondered in which relation he was standing to that woman, Miranda. Where they here together? Was she his girlfriend? Had he also momentarily forgotten that she was still present as well? 

“I think it never happened to me, either”, Thomas mused. 

“So, then you don’t know whether there’s a difference between what you’ve described in that story and what...filmmakers are trying to sell us as the perfect love?”, he wanted to know, air-quoting the last part. 

“I don’t believe that it’s the same. Because in the first case...deep down you know that there never is a chance for things to happen like you’re imagining. It’s a fleeing feeling that passes as fast as it has occurred. In the latter case, though...I think...it’s an experience that could have the potential to change your entire life”, Thomas meant, all while directly looking at the other man once more. 

His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue-green, like the sea and Thomas had to almost force himself not to stare for too long. It would be weird, though he couldn’t seem to bring himself to look away and neither did the ginger. It was an odd little moment, which almost felt surreal. Like everyone else in that café didn’t matter and it was just Thomas looking at the man and he looking back at him. 

“That was wonderfully expressed!”, a voice disrupted them all of a sudden, and this moment, which couldn’t have lasted longer than two or three seconds, was gone. “You just know that you’re an author, the way you’re able to handle words.”

“Thanks…I guess”, Thomas said to Miranda, almost a little confused, blinking in surprise at her presence. 

Also, the ginger looked a bit baffled for a second, then he just shook his head, like Thomas had done before and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. 

“Can I get a copy?”, he asked a moment later. 

“What?”, Thomas returned in confusion. He’d tried to come up with something else to say, anything, really. Just to drag on this conversation a little while longer. 

“A copy…of your book? Could I buy one?”, the other repeated, looking not quite sure about it. 

“Yes, of course!”, Thomas all but beamed at him, picking one up from the table beside him. 

“Would you like me to sign it?”, he added, pen already at hands. 

“Uhm…yeah, go ahead”, the man said after a brief consideration. 

“What’s your name?”

“James, James McGraw”, he offered with a slight smile as Thomas was writing something down on the very first page. 

“Here you go, James”, he meant, handing him the exemplar in exchange for some pounds. “I’m glad that I could manage to persuade you of my work.”

“Well, you’re quite intriguing…”, James began, stopping himself, though. “I mean, your work is. It’s enthralling”, he all but hastily added, which made Thomas grin a little and he could feel his cheeks growing hot. 

“Thanks for coming here tonight. It was a pleasure discussing with you”, he finally managed to say, forcing himself not to stare at the other man any longer. “And you, Miranda”, he shook her hand first, and then held his out for James. His handshake was firm and Thomas lingered a second or two longer than necessary, taking in the other’s gorgeous eyes once more. 

“Have a good evening”, Thomas finally said, before they eventually turned to leave. He could still feel the warm touch of James’s hand on his while watching them leave the café and suddenly he felt oddly empty. 

“Thomas?”, he heard Max asking him and couldn’t tell if it was only a minute later, or ten. 

“Are you okay?”, she laid a hand on his upper arm, pressing it lightly. 

“I’m…”, he began, not really sure what to say. He didn’t even know himself how he felt that very moment. 

“I’ve seen you”, she said.

“What?”, he asked, looking at her confused, not quite sure what she was hinting at. 

“That guy. The way you were looking at him…”, Max let him know. 

“Max, please…” he sighed, not eager to get into this right now. He wasn’t quite sure that there was anything to get into at all. 

“Well, he was pretty handsome”, she said, grinning knowingly at him. 

“He was gorgeous”, he agreed with another sigh. 

“Well, if I were you, I’d have randomly scribbled my number into that book you signed for him”, his best friend suggested shamelessly, grinning widely. 

“Max”, Thomas sighed yet again. “He’s straight. That was probably his girlfriend right there.”

“If you say so”, Max only meant, shrugging. “I mean, sure, I’ll be here if you need to cry for fancying a straight boy yet again”, she added, jokingly and this made him grin. 

“What would I even do without you”, he returned, only halfway joking. 

 

**James’s POV**

“Where are you, James?”, Miranda asked him as they were walking down the sidewalk after they’d left the literature café. It was only about one and a half kilometres to her flat, so they had decided against taking a bus. It was a perfectly nice, not too cold, night for going on a walk. 

“I’m here”, he replied, not sure what she wanted to hear. 

“You haven’t said a word since we left”, she stated. 

“I’m…just a little tired”, he offered, a weak excuse because he wasn’t even that tired, but he couldn’t come up with anything else. 

“Am I boring you?”, she asked, her voice not sounding hurt, only neutral. 

“What? Why would you say that?”, he returned and almost stopped walking. 

“This is the third time we’re going out together...and you know, I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. You’re sweet and funny and educated. But you...I don’t know. What am I to you? Would you’ve kissed me goodbye tonight? Would you’ve asked me if you could come up to my place with me?” 

“Why are you phrasing these questions like this?”, he wanted to know, mildly irritated. “Like that’s not something that could happen anymore.” 

“Because I don’t think it is. Or is it?”, she wanted to know in return. 

“I...I like spending time with you, too. And I’d...if you wanted to, I’d want to see you again”, he stammered. 

“That wasn’t an answer to my question. What’s your ‘but’? You like me, as a friend, but you’re not attracted to me, is it that?” 

“You’re a beautiful, brilliant woman, Miranda!”, James said honestly. “And I’m sorry if...you know, I just...I’m not feeling anything. Are you attractive? Of course, you are! But...I just...I don’t feel anything more about you than that I like hanging out with you. And that doesn’t feel enough. It just isn’t enough…”, he explained, desperately looking for a way to make this not sound too hurtful, because she was a good person and didn’t deserve this. 

“Thanks for being so honest”, Miranda meant then and didn’t even appear to be too saddened. 

“Did I disappoint you?”, he dared to ask. 

“No”, she was shaking her head to underline her statement. “No, I’m glad you told me now. You know, I might be fancying you a bit, but...I’ll be fine. I just have to ask you this, and I’m sorry if this upsets you in any way, but...do you like men?”

“What?”, he stopped short, turning to look at her, not understanding where this question was coming from all of a sudden. Had he given her any reason to believe that? 

“I’m sorry. It’s just...I saw the way you were looking at him. The way you…” 

“What, whom are you talking about?”, he disrupted her, taken aback. 

“James, come on? Thomas Hamilton. You just met him tonight, you didn’t even know him, had never heard of him before, you didn’t care to go up to him and talk to him. But then...the way the two of you interacted...I mean, you literally just met him. And, sure, you and I, we’ve also only spent a couple of hours together, but you never...you and him, that was entirely something else…”, she explained, almost sighing. 

“I’m not gay”, he returned and it sounded almost stubborn. 

Where did she get the idea from that he’d apparently hit it off quite well with that author fellow? Sure, he was bright, incredibly talented, and handsome and maybe James had even meant it when he said he found him intriguing, not only his work. But apparently, he was also fairly popular and James was pretty certain that about every single woman in that café – including Miranda -was fancying him. 

“I didn’t say that”, she gave back in defence.

“But you implied”, James meant, musing what exactly he’d done to make Miranda say all of this. 

“I was wondering. I just...you know, what you just said. It’s one thing to find someone attractive. Maybe you’ve found women attractive your whole life. But...to fall in love with someone, it needs more than that. And maybe I’m going too far here, and tell me if I’m completely wrong, but maybe...maybe you have a hard time falling in love with women because you’re only ever experiencing this very special connection with men”, Miranda suggested carefully. 

He stared at her with a mixture of shock and awe, not able to find words to tell her that she’d actually quite hit home there. 

“I studied a few semesters of psychology first, remember?”, she told him with a slight smile. “So, am I right?” 

“I’ve had a couple of girlfriends every now and then, but...it never became anything too serious. We never moved in together, or anything like that. If it’s that what you mean?”, he managed to tell after a moment of surprise. She was completely right with her analysis, he’d mused about this hundreds of times before himself, never quite sure whether he was just being odd. 

“And boys?” 

“There...there was one at university, his name was John. And I truly liked him. A lot. But I never told him, I was too much of a bloody coward. And we...we only made out a couple of times, just fooled around a bit. I think he liked me enough and was curious, figuring stuff out, but I…I was falling for him. And then he got a girlfriend...”, James remembered, sighing heavily. “I have no clue what became of him now, where he is, what he does. Sometimes I wish I knew…like, I just want him to be alright, that’s all.” 

“Thanks for sharing this with me”, Miranda meant, as they finally started walking again. 

“You’re the first person I ever told about”, James returned, shrugging. 

“Then I feel honoured that you trusted me enough to do so”, she smiled at him lightly in the dim light of the street lamps. “You can’t just decide whom you’re falling in love with, you know. There’s nothing wrong with fancying guys.”

“If I could change it, though, I’d love to fancy you. You’re amazing, Miranda. And if it’s any possible for you, I’d like very much for us to see again. Just to be friends”, James replied and it sounded quite shy. 

“Okay, let’s be friends then“, she agreed as they arrived at the house where here flat was. “Thanks for walking me home”, Miranda added. 

“That’s what friends do”, he replied, winking at her and then embraced her in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, in case you were having any expectations that I cannot meet.”

“It’s fine”, she gave back, moving away from him a bit to place a short kiss on his cheek. "We’ll be fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> thank you all so so much for reading this story, for your kudos and comments, I'm really so happy that you seem to like it so far because I just love writing this AU :)  
> Also I cannot really tell how many chapters there will eventually be. All I know is that I won't be able to upload that often because things are pretty busy at uni this semester. But I'll try to post once every 2-3 weeks :) Enjoy reading!

**Two days later**

 

When the doorbell rang, Thomas was startled awake to find himself sitting at his desk where he must have fallen asleep with his head bedded on his arms. He’d written until late into the night, dozens of pages lying all over the table and the floor, some of them crossed out, some others scrunched up. His neck hurt from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position and he had a headache from working too much at once the day before. But he tried not to care, because at least he finally got his inspiration back! It seemed like his mind was almost bursting with new ideas and he barely could write them all down before they were followed by the next ones. 

While he run a hand through his hair and over his tired face, the doorbell rang again and reminded him why he’d woken up in the first place. 

“Just a minute!”, he called out, picking himself up out of the chair and went over into the bathroom to splash a little cold water onto his face in order to wake up some more. 

Towel still in his hands, he opened the door to find Max and Anne waiting outside, their faces twitching in surprise when they took in his appearance. 

“What are you doing here?”, he wanted to know, almost baffled, because he hadn’t expected them in front of his door at 10 am on a Sunday morning.

“Brunch, remember?”, Anne explained, still staring at him in wonder. 

“Oh god, I totally forgot about that! I’m sorry”, Thomas sighed, stepping aside to let them in. 

“How are you looking? What happened?”, Max finally managed to ask as he closed the door behind them. 

“I fell asleep while writing last night…”, he started to explain, pouring some water from the tap in the kitchen to gulp it down. 

“You were writing?!”, both of the girls asked almost shocked. 

“Don’t sound that surprised, I’m a writer after all”, Thomas returned as he led them into the living room where his desk was also and they could make out the mess of paper all around. 

“Well...so much for the writer’s block and not being inspired”, Max commented.

“I found new inspiration”, he told, running a hand through his hair, apparently not caring to pick up all the crumbled pieces of paper yet. He could do so later. 

“That’s awesome!”, Max meant delighted and Thomas just gave her a happy smile. 

“The words were virtually pouring out of me, I did little else but writing all day long yesterday”, he meant. 

“So, you still want to go for brunch or go right ahead writing some more?”, Anne wanted to know then. 

“Of course, I’m coming with you guys, just give me a quarter hour to take a shower and get dressed”, he gave back, heading for the bathroom. 

 

“So, where did all this inspiration suddenly come from?”, Max asked later when they were sitting in a nearby café, waiting for their orders. Her voice sounded innocent, but she was giving him a look that made him think she could see right through him and already knew it all. 

“Oh, just the usual. Ideas popped up in my mind and I had to take some notes”, he replied somewhat evasively because he wasn’t all too eager to discuss the real reason. But it was a weak attempt to distract her, actually he should have known by now that one couldn’t just beat Max down like this. 

“Yes, but you didn’t come up with anything in weeks. And now your living room is a muddle of sheets”, Anne commented, one eyebrow raised. 

“See, even Anne thought it was a mess, and her place basically is the definition of chaos!”, Max meant in faked accusation. 

“It’s the readings, they’re inspiring. Meeting so many people every night and getting to listen to their thoughts is truly vitalising”, Thomas eventually settled for. 

“You mean it’s vitalising to meet great looking blokes who are flirting with you?”, Max returned with a devious grin. 

“Who was flirting with me?”

“That handsome ginger I believe you described as gorgeous?”, she returned as if he was kidding her. Obviously, he wasn’t. 

“He wasn’t flirting with me, Max”, Thomas sighed. “I told you he was there with his girlfriend.”

“So, you’re telling me he isn’t your newly found source of inspiration then?”, she wanted to know and Anne nodded in agreement. 

“I didn’t say that”, Thomas gave back, grinning mischievously. “In my defence, he was stunning”, he added, ducking his head, almost feeling regretful now. 

He’d really enjoyed this conversation, the ginger man - James - seemed sharp-witted, as well as pretty charming. Surely, it would have been fun to spend some more time discussing with him. Truth is, Thomas had thought of little else since he’d left the literary café. He’d re-played their conversation in his mind more than a dozen times, thinking of other aspects he could have mentioned, things he should have said to keep talking to him a little while longer. There was so much he didn’t know about him, so many things he would like to ask him if he had a chance to.  
But he knew that it was futile to hope for them to meet again and didn’t want to have any illusions about it. This was London, after all, there were nine million people living here and millions more visiting every single day. It was like looking for the so-called needle in the haystack. Thomas knew perfectly well that it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on the memory of this night like he had for the better part of this weekend, to keep thinking about a man he didn’t even know, imagining scenes that would never happen. But he’d always been great in torturing himself, his feelings, when it only meant that he could produce some amazing new work. And he was fairly certain that encountering James was exactly what he’d needed for his creativity to be sparked again, because he hadn’t felt this imaginative in months.  
So, instead of feeling foolish about a silly little crush, he rather took it as an inspiration because, god knows, he needed it desperately. And what was so bad about fancying someone, even if you’d never see them again? At least you couldn’t get disappointed like this because you knew there was no chance in the world for anything more to happen. He was allowed to daydream a little, make James a character in one of his stories, or the one which the persona in one of his poems would be addressing and swooning over. As long as he could come up with some great new work, surely no harm would be done. And nobody – except Max, Anne, and himself – ever had to know that this was about the man he’d met after his last reading. 

“Does this mean you finally have found your muse now? The one reporters keep asking you about?”, Max wanted to know, grinning, because she was aware that she could annoy him like that. He’d held forth about this countless of times before and she understood that he couldn’t stand these interview questions anymore. 

“Well, if it was like this, I’d certainly not let them know”, he winked at her, that particular topic finished for him.

“I don’t think it’s very healthy to be pining after someone like that”, Anne commented, taking a sip of her coffee that had arrived in the meantime. “I mean, you won’t ever see him again”, she added. 

“I’m aware of this, dear Anne”, Thomas replied, even sounding a little amused. He didn’t need his friends to understand his motivations, hell, he didn’t even need to understand it himself as long as he only could write something that was worth being printed. 

He was even painfully aware that spending too much time thinking of James and imagining things that would never come true could wreck him. This almost had happened before with another straight guy he once met. But writing kept him sane, as paradox as it all seemed. He needed to make his heart ache in order to be able to pour his soul out in form of poetry and stories and be cured again by doing so. Writing always had been the best medicine for him, no matter what for. Sometimes he wondered what would have become of him if he hadn’t decided to be a writer. Maybe he would have gone insane by all the thoughts in his head that needed an outlet. 

“But would you want to see him again?”, Max meant then. 

“Max, come on, we all know it’s not realistic”, he sighed once more. 

“But if you could?”, she kept digging deeper. 

“What are you trying here?”, he wanted to know a little sceptical, raising an eyebrow at her. 

“Anne and I were thinking about the fact that maybe it would be good for you to, you know, have someone again. It’s been a while since you were with anyone”, she told him. 

“Yes, but I barely know the guy?”, he gave back in confusion. 

Why did she have to be like that? Sure, she was his best friend and probably she just wanted him to be happy, but she really didn’t have to try setting him up with anyone, or something like that. Because that’s what he felt was happening here, even if he was almost sure that there wasn’t a chance for him to meet James again, let alone be set up with him. 

“I’ve seen you interacting with him, though. You really liked him, didn’t you?”, Max asked then, a tad more considerate.

“Even if so, would that matter?”, Thomas returned, sounding a little frustrated now because why couldn’t Max just leave this issue be? 

It was bad enough as it was. He knew that he’d never see this man again, no matter if he’d liked him or not. Even if he did, by some odd coincidence, ever get to meet him again, it still wouldn’t matter, because he was quite certain that James was straight and Miranda was his girlfriend. So, Max really didn’t have to belabour this yet again. All he wanted was to take James as an inspiration for his work because that’s the only thing he could do, seeing that anything else wouldn’t just be unrealistic but maybe also a little pathetic. 

“Well, maybe liking him is all that matters, you know? Also, fancying someone again would look good on you”, she meant, shrugging and smiling at him encouragingly. 

“It’s nice of you guys to worry about this but it really isn’t something you should be concerned about. If I meet someone new, then so be it. If I don’t, then, …well...in the meantime, I can still just let myself be inspired by James”, he told them and hoped they’d understand and finally leave him be. 

“James? Is this his name?”, Anne asked in confusion. 

“You know his name?”, Max stared at him out of big eyes, putting her cappuccino down without even nipping from it. 

“I do, why?”, Thomas wanted to know. He’d signed a copy of his book for him, so, of course, he had to know his name for doing this. 

“Well, did it occur to you, maybe, to just look him up on Facebook?!”, she said to him as if he’d lost his mind. “Granted you also know his last name, obviously”, she added in a more normal voice. 

“Max, I’m not stalking a man on Facebook!”, he returned all but indignant. For him this seemed like something 14-year old girls did when they were having their first crush.

“You aren’t stalking, you’re just doing some research”, Max euphemised. 

“That’s what she always says”, Anne stage-whispered and smirked at him. 

“Aren’t you the tiniest bit interested to find out more about him, though? If he has social media, then you should totally check that out. I mean, I would if I was you”, Max suggested. 

“Of course, you would. But I’m not checking him out online”, Thomas objected. 

He didn’t like this suggestion at all. Not only because he’d feel like an actual stalker, but also because he rather wanted to keep his distance. James had the potential to wreck him, he could feel that in his innermost core. He knew from the moment their eyes had met this very first time that the ginger man was something else. God forbid, were he to meet him more frequently, Thomas was sure that this wouldn’t end well. Not with the directions the signs were pointing in. Maybe he was being melodramatic but he was an author, after all. And it seemed certain to him, that what he’d felt in his chest while looking at James, while talking to him, wasn’t a sensation he’d ever felt before in this intensity.  
For now, feeling like this seemed totally fine to him, it was pushing his creativity, he had produced incredible new work the day before. So, it certainly was alright to daydream a little while longer, use this new infatuation for his poems and stories for as long as he could. He could still hope that this was a fading feeling that would disappear in some days, although secretly he hoped for it to stick with him for as long as possible, as it only was an inspiration for his work. But in the back of his head there was a small voice telling him that he shouldn’t let this get out of his hands, because he couldn’t be ruined over a stranger once more. Maybe this was his fate, though. Maybe being this successful as an author meant for him to make certain sacrifices, among them making his heart ache up to the point where he almost was hurting physically as well. At least that’s what he’d been musing about countless of times already. But he wouldn’t question it too hard as long as it helped him write. Sometimes his inner voice was joking, that probably he’d turn crazy one day with or without writing. Obviously, he didn’t tell this Max, or anyone, because they’d just worry for him, and his sanity, probably. 

“Let’s talk about something different, shall we?”, he meant after a while, pushing the memory of James to the back of his mind for now. “How did your vernissage go the other day, Anne?” 

 

**The next day**

After Thomas had come back from brunch with his friends, he’d cleaned up his living room a bit. Actually, while being in flow and keeping his focus solely on writing, he didn’t care how his surroundings were looking, but he innately was an orderly person and just couldn’t stand when his flat looked too untidy. As soon as he’d neatened things up, he’d made a cup of tea and sat down to write some more, starting where he’d left up the night before due to falling asleep. Time always was flying when he was in his very own world, creating a new character or scenery, but at about 1:30am he’d put away his pencil and went to bed, because his neck was still a little sore from the night before spent on the chair. 

When he got up on Monday morning, he felt rested and ready to continue working over a story that he’d come up with late at night. He was sure it needed some polishing, some fixing, because he always tended to get a little sloppy when too tired. But as much as he’d have loved to go right to work after breakfast, he first had to call his agent, and editor, at the publishing company because he hadn’t got in touch with him in almost a week, although he’d promised he’d let him know when he had time to meet up and discuss some new ideas. Mainly this was just because he hadn’t had any ideas up until literally two days ago, but now that he’d written thousands of new lines, Thomas felt like it was time to let him know. 

“Thomas, I just was thinking about calling you, since you seemed to have been going into hiding”, Woodes Rogers said by way of greeting. 

“Good morning to you too, Rogers”, Thomas replied, smirking. 

“I hope you were writing and that’s the reason why you haven’t let me know about anything new before?”, his editor wanted to know, a mocked and empty threat. 

“Indeed, I have. I’ve been writing all weekend. Although I’m not quite sure as of right now whether I like how most of it turned out, I would dare saying that I did produce some useful new work”, he reported. 

“That’s wonderful, I’m glad to hear that!”

“Yes, can we meet up, I’d like to show you some excerpts”, Thomas suggested.

“Oh, yes, actually I’ve wanted to ask you to come around anyway. I’ve something interesting to propose to you”, Rogers meant. 

“Great, when should I drop by?”

“Are you free this afternoon?”, the editor asked. 

“You must be pretty excited for my new work?”, Thomas said, laughing a little. 

“You know I always am”, Rogers replied and he was right. 

He and Thomas went way back, they’d had some courses together at college. At first, they couldn’t stand each other, both being eager, over-achieving boys in their early twenties. Thomas thought that there might have been a time, where they both were kind of jealous of the other’s skills, but it all changed with a group project they’d been assigned to do together. Woodes Rogers might be a little full of himself, but he was brilliant and together they had worked almost perfectly, handing in one of the best projects their professor had seen in years. After that occurrence, they still were far from being best friends, but they appreciated each other and valued each other’s opinion highly. Also, Rogers had always been amongst those who truly believed in Thomas and when he had gone into publishing himself rather than being an author as well, it was more than obvious for the both of them that they’d be more than happy to be working together again if possible. 

“I hope I won’t disappoint you then”, Thomas said. 

“You hardly ever do. I can see you at 3pm, is this okay with you?”

“Sure, see you around, Woody!”

“You know I don’t like people calling me that”, his editor sighed and it made Thomas grin as it always did. He just loved annoying him a little too much sometimes. 

“See you, Rogers”, he laughed, hanging up. 

 

When entering the building of the publishing company in the afternoon, Thomas was a tad late. He’d been working, forgetting to keep an eye on the watch, as well as everything else around him, while creating a new character. Thomas disliked being late, figured it was rude, and hated having to wait for people himself. So, the first thing he did when Rogers’s secretary led him through to his office was to apologise. 

“I hope you were writing some incredible new story?”, Rogers returned, his voice sounding more amused than he was looking and offered him a seat.

“Indeed, I was. All weekend”, Thomas gave back, placing a folder with some of his latest work in front of him.

“That’s amazing, I’m glad to hear that you found new inspiration again!”, his agent commented. 

“So, what was it that you wanted to see me about?”, Thomas asked, curiously. 

“Your online performance”, Rogers just offered. 

“Excuse me?”, Thomas wanted to know because he didn’t quite understand what he meant by that. 

“Your website. So far, it’s just a place for people to get information about your readings and your collection, or they can order it online. But how about making it some kind of market space for your new work? And I’m not talking about publishing a new story, or poem, every few days, not even each week. Once or twice a month would be sufficient to keep your readers interested”, his agent explained.

“You mean I give them some of my work for free in order for them to not forget about me?”, he summed it up. 

“Exactly! It doesn’t have to be much, a short poem, a few paragraphs of a story...just to give you some more time to come up with enough work to fill a new collection”, Rogers agreed. 

“Alright, I don’t see why not”, Thomas meant because it sounded like a well thought-through idea and he’d love to give his readers something while they were patiently awaiting his second collection. 

“Great. Maybe you already produced something fit to be published online there?”, Rogers meant then, directing his gaze at the folder on the desk. 

“It’s raw work, mostly. Some working titles…”, Thomas explained while opening the file and handing some papers to Rogers. 

His editor scanned them shortly at first, before picking out some that might have sparked his interest a little more. 

“This is nice work”, he mumbled, re-reading a three-verse poem about springtime in London. 

It took him some more time to review one of the stories Thomas had come up with, while the author was just sitting there, trying not to be as nosy as to stare at his editor while he was reading. 

“What is this?”, Rogers suddenly wanted to know, mild irritation clouding his voice, as he was halfway through a story Thomas had written Saturday night sometime before falling asleep during his work. 

“To a Stranger…”, the editor mumbled, reading the title once more. “Is this fiction?” 

“Of course, it is. All my stories are, I’m a fiction author”, Thomas said as if Rogers had bumped his head and forgotten whom he was talking to. 

“This one doesn’t appear to me like it is, though”, the editor returned with a musing gaze. 

“I’m not Truman Capote”, Thomas joked then. 

“No, which is good. Although…you’ve got something else in common with him…”, Rogers deadpanned, an amused grin on his lips. 

When he got his hint, for a second Thomas almost glared at him, before deciding to swallow a cheeky response down. He didn’t appreciate people making jokes about his sexuality, but he already knew that Rogers could be an arse sometimes. The thing was, that he was ingenious too. They worked together exceptionally well and Thomas was painfully aware that part of him being this successful was also due to Rogers’s work. He was an idiot sometimes, but at least he wasn’t an outright homophobe, because otherwise it would have been pretty unfortunate, since Thomas would be looking for someone else instead. But he knew Rogers, he’d listened to his shit for over a decade now, that’s just how he was. He had a loose mouth some days but he wasn’t a bad guy and neither a bigot. 

“Not funny”, he just mouthed at him and made Rogers sigh and duck his head. 

“See, I don’t think that it isn’t good. Quite on the contrary. It’s amazingly beautiful, these are raw feelings. It’s a little like ‘Through your eyes’, just...it, it’s different from your other work. More inspired, like there is no filter holding anything back. I just wonder whether these feelings are your protagonist’s, or your own. It isn’t anything bad, most ordinary readers might not even notice any difference. It has a kind of pure authenticity to it that feels absolutely genuine, I really like it”, the editor meant then. 

“Thanks...I don’t think that it’s always possible to strictly separate a protagonist’s feelings from your own, you know”, Thomas explained, wondering if his style had actually changed this obviously. 

“Certainly...I’d like this in the new collection. There are some points that aren’t quite perfected yet, but this is a brilliant start. You can leave me some of your other probes, I’ll review them over the next days”, Rogers offered. 

“You can keep these, thank you”, Thomas replied, pushing the folder over the desk. 

“How are the readings going so far? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to one yet”, Rogers wanted to know then. 

“It’s fine, they’re inspiring. People come to talk to me afterwards, it’s insightful to learn about many different views”, Thomas returned, smiling, thinking back of all the amazing people that he’d got to discuss with. 

“It sounds fun and interesting”, Rogers agreed, nodding. 

“Can we have a comment function for the readers on the website?”, Thomas mused as the thought came to his mind. 

“That’s a great idea, but we’d also need someone to monitor it in case people started insulting you, or each other”, Rogers considered. 

“So,...no then?”

“Oh, no, I like it. I’ll see what we can do about it”, the editor said. 

“Awesome, thanks”, Thomas replied with a smile. This really could be a promising experiment. 

“Maybe you should get a Twitter account as well…”, Rogers pondered then. 

“I don’t need that. It’ll be enough for me to communicate with people on my website and after the readings”, Thomas opposed. 

He wasn’t internet-oriented at all and already hated using e-mails instead of writing letters. The whole concept seemed foreign to him, he’d always loved writing on paper with a pencil. Of course, he typed the final versions of his poems and stories in the end, but if it was up to him, he really didn’t need all these social networks and whatnot. To him this seemed more than a waste of time than anything else. Some might call him a purist, others a hipster, but he didn’t care. Having a website was more than enough for him and the perspective of sharing his work online and getting comments for it actually excited him more than he was willing to admit. 

“Fine, for now. I’ll see what I can do about the website and the comments, alright?”

“Alright”, Thomas nodded in agreement. 

“Your next readings will be in Oxford, won’t they?”, his editor asked. 

“Yeah, I’m driving there on Thursday”, he responded. 

“That’s unfortunate, I’m in Oxford next week to meet with a potential new client. I could have stopped by had it been at the same time”, Rogers considered. 

“Oh, I’ll be back in London soon enough, don’t worry, you’ll get to see me reading my work to an audience eventually”, Thomas winked at him. 

“Thomas?” 

“Yeah?”

“I just have to ask you, because what you delivered here is incredible. And this despite you said before that you haven’t written anything in weeks. What did inspire you to all this work now? I mean, it’s a stack of poems and a couple of short stories, that’s remarkable”, Rogers meant. 

Thomas knew that he didn’t ask out of the same curiosity that all these journalists did. Rogers wanted to know because he still was writing a little himself when he got the chance to and they’d discussed the lack of inspiration and having writer’s blocks countless of times. Still, he didn’t feel comfortable telling him the truth. It was enough already that Max and Anne had managed to tease it out of him. And probably, Woodes Rogers, who has happily been married for a couple of years now, wouldn’t even get his kind of behaviour. 

“The readings. I’m meeting a lot of inspiring people there, as I told you before”, is all he offered in the end. 

“It quite seems so. I’m glad you’re back to writing”, Rogers replied with a smile. 

“Did you worry?”, Thomas joked. 

“No, you’ve always come up with something eventually, for as long as I’ve known you. I’m not worried about your creativity”, his editor gave back, grinning. 

“That’s good to know”, Thomas meant, getting up now, the conversation over. “Say hello to Eleanor for me, will you?”, he added then, smiling. 

“Sure, she’ll love to hear that you’ve started writing again”, Rogers commented. 

“You could bring her along to a reading, it would be nice to see her”, Thomas suggested. 

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic about that”, Rogers laughed. 

“I guess. See you around, Woodes”, Thomas said with a wave of his hand, opening the door. 

“I’ll let you know about the website and be in touch with you about your work!”, he called after him. 

 

**James’s POV**

James never really liked reading short stories or poems before he got Thomas Hamilton’s collection. He rather was a novel kind of guy. That, and historical books, because this is what he was most interested in. Mostly he read to dive into another world, to get away from his daily life for some moments when everything was getting a little too much. On the other hand, he read to gather some knowledge and information. He held a special interest in history and art history, had even been fortunate enough to make a living out of it in some way, seeing that he owned a small antiques shop. It certainly wouldn’t make him rich, but as long as his regulars didn’t leave him hanging and the occasional fancier, or even curious tourists walked in, he could live from it. 

Before, he always figured that short stories couldn’t provide him any of these things. Not an escape into a world where no everyday problem was around and neither did the ones he remembered reading offer him something he didn’t already know. The only thing he associated with poems was learning them by heart for literature class at school. Thomas Hamilton’s work was different, though. There was an extraordinary beauty to it that was hard to describe with plain words. It certainly was a form of art he hadn’t appreciated enough so far, but he was willing to change this. It’s been about a week since the reading and he’d finished most of the stories, even re-read some of them, by now. Reading poetry wasn’t like reading fiction at all, at least in his opinion. When reading a novel, he mostly cared about the plot and the characters but didn’t stop and wonder too much about the background of the story itself. Or the statement the author wanted to express with it. Poems were another thing, however. They’d leave him pondering about the author’s intention, trying to find possible ways of interpretation. It was the same with his short stories. They weren’t just a work of fiction that you read and then forgot about the next day. Most of them seemed to have an underlying message, something to make the reader think about, which James appreciated immensely. 

More than once he’d wished so far that he could just get in contact with Thomas Hamilton somehow and ask him about specific aspects of his work, he wanted to know his thoughts behind it. Wanted to agree, or disagree, as he had done the week before, when he’d actually met him. Most of all, he wanted to tell him how impressed he was with his work, how much he grew to enjoy it over this short period of time already. By now he had the book lying on his nightstand, reading one of the poems oftentimes was the last thing he did before falling asleep. James also was really fond of the dedication the author had written down for him that night. It was neat, but gently squiggled, which made it look rather beautiful and James had caught himself tracing it lightly with his index finger once or twice, before shaking his head in disbelief of his action and closing the book to put it back on the bedside table. The first time he’d read it, he’d smirked, thinking back of their exchange at the literary café and the fact that James had outright told the author that he wasn’t a fan of his work. By now, he could definitely say that what the poet had written down there on the very first page of his collection was something he could only affirm. It said:  
_James, people find love in the most unexpected forms and places, for the most exceptional people and subjects. Hopefully you can find some for my work as well. T.H._  
And he certainly had. He enjoyed Hamilton’s style so much that he was hoping the author would publish something new soon. 

The other day he’d seen Miranda for lunch break, because she’d been around to interview someone for the magazine she was working for not too far away from James’s antiques shop and let her know that he actually liked Hamilton’s work. She’d been almost excited to hear so and then they’d ended up discussing some interpretations for the one or other poem. James had felt like back in literature class for a moment, but secretly he’d loved it. Relieved, he’d figured that Miranda didn’t seem angry at him for what had come out the night of the reading, but she was smart and joyful as ever. James had spent a lot of time wondering about that conversation he’d had with her that night over the past few days. He still didn’t quite understand what she’d meant when saying “you and him, that was entirely something else”. It was something he just couldn’t get out of his head anymore, but at the same time, he didn’t dare to directly ask Miranda to explicate it for him, because he didn’t want her to assume that he still was thinking about all of this. Mostly, he didn’t want her to know that he still was thinking about Thomas. It was pathetic. He was a famous author who met dozens of people every day. Probably by now he wouldn’t even remember James anymore, why should he? 

Clearly, James should just forget about it and move on, but his mind wouldn’t give him that peace. Eventually, it would always wander back to the author eventually. James would remember the discussion they’d had about one of his short stories. He’d remember the poet’s smart-spoken arguments, his eloquence, the emphasis in his voice, his hands gesturing to underline his statements, his clear ocean-blue eyes. There wasn’t much he knew about Thomas Hamilton, but the little he’d get to know about him that night fascinated him.  
He wasn’t one of these internet-affine people, but if he was, probably he’d looked him up by now, tried to get to know more, anything, about him. But first of all, he didn’t really use his laptop much, except for work-related search and furthermore, he’d never really been interested in any gossip stories. If there even were any surrounding Thomas Hamilton. He seemed way to proper, too sophisticated, for anything that would be on the gutter press. So, he rather let it be and didn’t make the whole matter even more pathetic than it already was. Probably he wouldn’t even be worrying about all of this, had Miranda not brought things up, whatever she’d meant with it. 

It was late Friday afternoon, almost time to close the shop up, the last customers had left a few minutes ago and so far, nobody had shown up anymore, as his mobile rang. 

“Hi, this is James”, he answered the call, without looking at the caller-ID. 

“James, hi, it’s Miranda”, his new friend said in excitement, which made him smile lightly and wonder why she was in such a great mood.

“What’s up?”, he wanted to know.

“You will not believe this, but I’ll be interviewing Thomas Hamilton sometime next week, or whenever he’s back from Manchester!”, she reported, her voice a tad higher than usual. 

“You will, really?”, he asked a little taken aback because he’d expected to hear anything but that. 

“Don’t sound that surprised, I’m working for a culture magazine, after all!”, she gave back.

“Yeah, just…this is awesome, I’m glad you get to do this!”, he managed to say, still a little in surprise. The possibility of Miranda interviewing Thomas Hamilton never had occurred to him before when thinking of the author. But it wasn’t that illogical after all, since Miranda actually was a culture journalist. 

“Yes, and I didn’t even have to suggest it. The editor-in-chief came up with it this morning during our daily meeting and obviously half the editorial staff almost started to fight each other for it”, Miranda told him next. 

“Only half?”, James joked. Interviewing someone like Hamilton seemed like a huge deal, he apparently was one of the most eligible persons in the UK these days. 

“We’re not such a huge magazine, not everyone is qualified for this kind of work. I mean, some people are also graphic editors, or photographers and such”, Miranda enlightened him. 

“And you’ll get to meet him?”, he asked, feeling something in his chest that with better knowledge could only be discribed as envy, but he dismissed it. 

“Yeah, I’m so excited! Do you think he’ll remember the reading?”, Miranda wanted to know. 

“I…I don’t know?”, James returned, the question surprising him anew. 

“I’m sure he’d remember you”, she commented and he could almost hear her grin through the phone. 

“What, why?”, James gave back, mildly irritated as to why Miranda would think that. Hamilton must be meeting so many different people that it probably was hard for him to remember what he’d even had for lunch that very day. 

“You criticised his work, writers always remember that”, Miranda pointed out for him. 

“You’d have to know that”, he replied somewhat ironically. 

“Hey, I might be ‘just’ a journalist, but I can read you a whole book of situations where I’ve heard criticism about my articles”, she meant, with feigned indignation. 

“All right, all right. You have to tell me all about it then”, he said. 

“As if I wouldn’t. Are there any questions I could ask him on your behalf?”, she wanted to know then. 

“You…would?”, James replied, a little unsure. It was really nice of Miranda to offer this. 

“Well, if it’s not about his mobile number, then…”, Miranda returned, sounding serious. 

“Miranda!”, he all but screeched at her. That wasn’t a question that woulf have come to his mind anyway. 

“I’m just saying”, she laughed into the phone, amused that she got to him like that. “You know, when you’re a journalist, sometimes you hear certain things”, she added then. 

“What do you mean?”

“Gossip, rumours…stuff like that”, she clarified. 

“Of course. And?”, he wanted to know because he couldn’t see where this was going. 

“Well, rumour has it that Thomas Hamilton is gay”, Miranda told. 

“But didn’t you say once he’s with some woman?”, James remembered. He didn’t really know why she was telling him that. 

“Oh, but that’s it. Apparently, she’s his beard, because she’s gay as well and has a rising painter as her girlfriend”, she reported. 

“Oh, come on, Miranda”, he sighed. 

Gossip never had been a thing for him to engage in. He just couldn’t understand what was so entertaining about discussing the lives of popular people. There were enough real problems out there that needed to be addressed, so who cared about actress X wearing no make-up, or singer Y having the third affair in two months?  
“I’m just telling you what I heard”, she meant. 

“Okay. I don’t really see where this does concern me”, James gave back. Why would he care whom Thomas Hamilton was dating or not? 

“Well, I just thought you’d be interested to know”, she replied. 

“Why would I be interested to know?”

“I’m terribly sorry, James, but I need to finish something up here. Would you like to do something tomorrow night?”, Miranda gave back amd he could hear her whispering to someone whom he supposed must be a colleague. 

“Uhm…sure. Yeah, okay”, he just said, a little overwhelmed by how this whole phone call had turned out. 

“Fine, I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay?”

“Alright”, he agreed. 

“See you, James”, Miranda meant. 

“Bye”, he said, but she’d already hung up. 

He stared at his mobile for a while, before deciding to just close the shop up. It was almost closing hour anyway and there was no one around. When he got on the tube twenty minutes later to drive home, he still was distracted by what Miranda had told him on the phone. James was happy for her that she’d get to meet Thomas Hamilton again, got to do an interview with him. He was the big thing at the moment and it surely was an honour to be able to have him around for a chat. Also, he actually envied her a little, because she’d get to discuss with him, ask him questions about his work, when James almost longed to do so himself now after reading his collection. Although he was certain that she’d ask Thomas any question on his behalf and he loved her for it, it was something entirely different from being able to talk to the man in person himself. But he’d have to deal with it, since Miranda was the journalist, while he was just someone who appreciated to collect old stuff. 

What irritated him more than the fact that Miranda would be seeing Thomas again, was all the other things she’d said about him. James didn’t really believe that it was true. About every girl in the country seemed to be crazy about the author these days, even if this woman Miranda had talked about wasn’t his girlfriend, he probably could still get any woman he liked. So, it was quite hard to believe that he didn’t fancy any of them. But even if it were true and Thomas Hamilton was gay, actually, James didn’t know what to make of it. Sure, he’d loved discussing with the author, he felt intrigued by him even more than by his work. He even might be fancying him a little, after all he was a smart and handsome bloke. But James didn’t want to have any illusions. He wasn’t 15 years old anymore, it didn’t feel appropriate to have a crush on someone who could be considered a public figure. Even if a lot of these women whom he’d seen at the reading, who desperately and shamelessly tried to flirt with the author, didn’t seem to give a damn about it. But he wasn’t like them, he was being realistic and he knew when a little admiration was enough and he should stop at that. 

At least that’s what he told himself that night, when he was sitting in his bed, ‘Silence is the Loudest Noise’ bedded on his lap while he was re-reading ‘Through your eyes’ for the third time. By now he could understand why Miranda absolutely loved this story. It was bittersweet, just as lovely and touching as it was tragic, bringing tears to his eyes once more. When he was done whipping them away, he closed the book, wondering what he could let Miranda ask the author in her interview. Actually, he wanted to know so much. He wanted to ask a hundred questions about plots, the characters, intentions, settings. Also, he wanted to tell the poet a million things, at least. He wanted to point out ideas he got while reading his collection, wanted to tell him about memories that he remembered because of it. There was so much he wanted to say, wanted to ask. But he didn’t find it appropriate for Miranda to play the part of a messenger. Maybe he should write a letter instead that she could give him? James wasn’t sure about any of it. 

 

**The next evening**

Miranda had called him around noon to ask whether he wanted to go grab a drink with her and since he didn’t have anything else planned, he’d agreed to meet her at a pub. 

She was running a couple minutes late, so he already ordered a pint and sat down at one of the few empty tables, following the football game that was on at the moment. Tottenham was playing ManU, but since the only team he remotely cared about was Liverpool, he didn’t really give too much about the result, though.

After a while he spotted Miranda entering the pub and waved at her. 

“Hey, I’m sorry, I had to finish something up for work”, she meant as they hugged in greeting. 

“No worries”, he gave back with a slight smile. “How are things going?”

“There’s a lot to do at the moment because of that arts exhibition for new artists that’s held at the Tate this weekend. I’ve actually been there this morning…”, she told. 

“You didn’t like it?”, he went on asking when seeing her facial expression. 

“It was enlightening in some ways and I’m really all up for artistic freedom, and also do I understand that tastes differ, but what some people are calling art nowadays is just weird sometimes and also distressing”, Miranda meant. 

“Like?”, James asked with a grin. 

“There was a room full of Lego. Like, not even Lego figures, but just...Lego. Everywhere. It was pretty odd”, she reported.

“It sounds so”, he commented, frowning. “Did you get to talk to the artists about the meaning?”

“He meant that’s the point, there doesn’t always have to be a meaning. I still didn’t quite get it, thought”, she explained, laughing. 

“There also were pictures of people using every day artefacts as sex toys. I wished I could un-see certain things now, because it was just a little too weird”, Miranda went on, putting a hand to her face and shaking her head.

“Well, apparently that’s modern art nowadays”, James deadpanned. 

“I guess. How’re things at the shop?”, she wanted to know then. 

“Equally weird today. Some persons are just unbelievable. There was a small group of Japanese people at the shop this morning and only one of them seemed to be able to speak a little English. Anyway, this older man tried to ask me something about a clock from the 1920s and he honestly kept talking to me in Japanese and got angry when I couldn’t reply to him. Like, would you believe that? You cannot expect an ordinary guy from London to understand Japanese, can you? In the end, the one who knew some English apologised for his companion and said something along the lines of older people not being open for change…”, he told, shaking his head in disbelief. 

It had been quite an experience. Sure, there were a lot of people who didn’t know much English coming to his shop but usually it was enough to figure something out. And he didn’t even expect of anyone to speak proper English if it wasn’t their native language. But what had happened this morning was just plainly rude. 

“Some people will never be just a little progressive, don’t worry”, Miranda answered. 

“It certainly appears that way”, he nodded. 

“When will you be interviewing Thomas Hamilton?”, James remembered to ask then. 

“Tuesday in a week. Seems like he’s in Manchester right now and in Edinburgh afterwards”, Miranda explained. 

“It’s awesome that you’ll get to do this”, he answered honestly. 

“Right? It was such a surprise! I thought Greg would get the honour, he usually does great interviews, he even won an award for one last year. But apparently our chief editor thought it was time for a change, or something”, she said with a laugh. “If you have any burning questions about the interpretation of one of his poems, I’d be happy to ask for you”, she added. 

“That’s sweet of you. I just don’t think I could cut it down to just one or two questions”, he returned, running a hand through his hair. 

“Well, just let me know if there’s something”, she shrugged. 

“Actually...do you think it would be strange to write him a letter?”, he asked, hands playing around on his beer glass because he was mildly ashamed of admitting this thought. 

Miranda stared at him for a moment, musing. “He’s an author, I’m sure he’d love to get some input or feedback. He seemed very open to it after the reading at least”, she answered then.

“Yes, but don’t you think it’s a little immature? Like writing a letter to your favourite celeb, telling them how much you admire them?”

“You mean you don’t want to appear like one of his fangirls?”, Miranda laughed. 

“Yeah, that’s it”, he agreed with a light nod. 

“I don’t think it is. As long as you’re telling him your honest opinion about his work, he’ll appreciate it. It’s not like you’re planning to gush over his eyes or his voice or something, is it?”, she replied with a grin. 

“Actually, that’s exactly what I wanted to tell him”, James returned, jokey. 

“I knew it”, Miranda almost exclaimed in feigned triumph. “But you have to admit...you did fancy him a bit, didn’t you?” 

“He’s a sophisticated, eloquent, and gorgeous man. Who doesn’t fancy that?”, he gave back, a little grin on his lips. 

James could ask her now. What she’d meant with what she said about him and Thomas that night when he was walking her home. Probably she wouldn’t think much of it now that they anyway were kidding around like that. But he kept silent. He didn’t want her to know that this was still on his mind because it made him feel rather pathetic. 

“So, do you think he’ll publish some new stories or poems soon?”, he asked her instead. 

“Thomas Hamilton?”, she asked back. 

“Who else?”, he returned with a slight smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also if you wanna watch a video of Rupert Penry-Jones reading a poem on air, check this out:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XL7SE8HLet0  
> (a Tumblr mutual recommended it to me and it's absolutely beautiful, though I had to watch it like 5 times before I did understand anything about the poem, Rupert was just too distracting :D)

**Author's Note:**

> Actually I wrote that poem Thomas is reciting at the radio show myself when I was at High School (though in german and just translated it) and knocked out that short story he's discussing with James just yesterday in about 15 minutes, I hope it didn't turn out too bad :D xD


End file.
